Chances
by liveandlove1989
Summary: Tulip loses her breath the first time the smoothskin walks through her door. (FLW x Tulip)


She looks like nuclear fallout. Which, Tulip admits, is sort of ironic when it is she that carries the brunt of the war etched into her skin. But the nicknamed "Lone Wanderer" has eyes the color of a mushroom cloud and a smile that might have been beautiful once, now dangerous. She carries herself with the sort of hardened stance most wastelanders have come to wear like armor, gifts herself to a room like a spray of gunfire and burns brighter than the radioactive fires she's pushed through to lead her here. Tulip loses her breath the first time the smoothskin walks through her door.

She wears leather and pads, an assault rifle slung over her shoulder and knives in her belt. She doesn't say a word. Just heads for the corner - which is odd, because that's where Tulip has displayed the few books Willow has scavenged for her and she has read through a hundred times before - and begins looking. Tulip feels her tongue move to speak, but then those eyes are on her and she can't speak because it doesn't feel right. As if to break the silence means she's ruined something she doesn't really understand.

She watches as the woman makes her way over, two of the more sturdy hard cover books in her hand. Tulip doesn't check to see which ones they are as she mumbles out an undervalued price and is presented with a small pouch of jingling caps. She doesn't even count them. Just fumbles open the cash register and shoves them inside.

But the woman doesn't leave. Instead stands there and Tulip forces herself to look up and - and the smoothskin is smiling. At her. And not in the sympathetic way that a few of the wastelanders have offered her when they wander in from the outside. As if she's something to be pitied.

No, she's smiling and it's genuine and Tulip isn't sure if she should return the gesture or not but finds herself doing it regardless. Unable to help herself.

"Got any ammo?" the woman asks, and her voice is something else. Soft and silky, almost liquid as it slips past her lips. Now Tuilp really doesn't want to speak because hers is nothing like that. Not since her vocal cords eroded and her throat parched.

So instead she nods, stands there a moment before embarrassment weighs on her shoulders and turns to rustle along the shelves behind her. There isn't much - Willow and Quinn say things have been slow lately. But she does have pistol ammunition, and a few other things the stranger might be interested in. She turns back with it clutched in her palms and lays it all out across the counter.

Steely eyes scan it all. Calloused fingertips ghost over a few of the rounds, searching for imperfections or condition statuses. Tulip lets out a breath when those eyes travel back up to her. "How much for all of it?" And it shouldn't surprise her as much as it does that the woman is after it all. Survival is hard to come by. A means of defense ups those chances.

She swallows even though there's nothing really there and considers. Any amount she wants to say sounds cheapened by the interaction. But, she can't just hand out goods willy nilly, either. She finally settles on, "Two hundred for the lot."

If the smoothskin thinks it's too much or two little, she doesn't say so. Instead her hand is once again rifling through her pockets and she pulls out a larger pouch that rattles. She unties the string holding it closed and pours it out next to the bullets, a pile that steadily grows. It takes a moment to count it all out, but when it's done she pushes the caps towards Tulip and slides her purchases closer, letting them take the place of the caps in the bag. Tulip does her best to place the currency in the register with shaking hands.

After all is said and done, the woman doesn't outright leave. Instead she turns back to the ghoul when she makes it to the doorframe. The smile is gone but her lips curve up naturally and it makes her face softer than even the ruddiness of her sharp cheeks or the slight crook to her nose can take away from.

"What's your name?" And it's so casual an inquiry that Tulip falters.

"Tulip," she answers, and hopes that the raspy nature of her vocals hides the hoarseness in her response.

The woman cocks her head. Seems to dwell on the name longer than makes the ghoul comfortable. Then, with a sly glance the woman has left. As if she was never there in the first place.

For the rest of the day, Tulip isn't completely sure her lungs even work anymore.

* * *

It is two months and several visits later that she hears from Carol that the mystery woman's name is Samantha. It doesn't really fit her, Tulip thinks. Sounds too soft for the person that steps through her doorway and examines the armor pieces she sells. Too dainty for all the scars that litter her knuckles and throat. But that doesn't stop her from whispering it to the wind, to the dinosaur bones outside Underworld's doors, to herself in the dark. She doesn't really understand why she does these things.

One particular visit in particular is what makes things clearer.

She is fiddling with the dials to her radio, trying to work through the static and make out Three Dog's voice, when the Lone Wanderer is before her. The shadow she casts wraps around Tulip like a forgotten memory; she looks up with a grin ready to find-.

Samantha doesn't look so good. There's a slit along her bottom lip that's still beading and her gaze is as cutting as the blades at her hip. She looks angrier than the ghoul can ever recall her being and she looks away because this woman is the most intimidating thing she has come across in all her years. And she has met her fair share of raiders and deathclaws alike.

"I need stimpaks," Samantha states, and there's a crack to her voice that sounds like a shouldered cry, a silent plea that tugs at the very depths of Tulip's being.

Tulip doesn't really understand why the woman comes to her for these sort of things. Carol is the one to go to for a bed and Winthrop is best at repairs and Barrows knows more about medicine. But Samantha turns to her. And she doesn't have it in herself to turn the smoothskin away.

"Of course," she hears herself say, and she slips from behind the counter and reaches high up on her shelves for the healing aids. When she has a few she turns back, finds the woman leaning heavily against the wall with her eyes shut. When she lets her eyes wander she finds that nothing is physically wrong with this woman. Aside from the bruises and dented armor, that is. Instead she realizes the woman is being overwhelmed by something else.

She hands them over without prompt, waits patiently for Samantha to take them and in turn slap another pouch in her hand. She trusts the amount is right, knows it is from previous times before, so simply places it aside and watches as the woman slams the needled end into her arm like it won't leave a mark.

"Thanks," the smoothskin hisses. Then slams another one into her veins. That can't be good for her, Tulip thinks. The rush is intoxicating, overwhelming. Not like jet or pyscho but there. But even then, to take so many at a time is asking for an overdose. Everything hurts you nowadays.

But she keeps her mouth shut and instead slips from behind the counter. Heads to her bed in the back and bends down, pulls out two bottles of whiskey she's been saving for a long while. Thinks that maybe alcohol can heal more of whatever it is that hurts. She turns back to find her visitor slumping gracelessly into the only available chair in her dingy little shop.

"Whatcha got there?" Samantha asks her, and she offers a halfhearted smile and shakes the bottle. Listens to the way the amber tinted liquid sloshes inside and shows it up.

"Maybe you need this," she gives as explanation, handing over the bottles and making her way to the door. She shuts it firmly, not locked but also not inviting. Hopes Winthrop at least gets the message and won't simply barge in like normal.

When she goes to sit on the floor next to the table Samantha starts to object. Looks like she might even get up but Tulip shuts that down quickly with a hard shake of her head. So the smoothskin stays where she is and for the next half an hour they sit in compatible silence and simply pass the bottle between them.

Tulip has never been one for small talk. Doesn't think Samantha is, either, if her muted purchases have been anything to go by. So she just enjoys the burn of her swigs and lets herself believe that it means something more than she knows it does.

Samantha is something else. Has glass for a tongue and doesn't speak to keep from breaking it. Keeps those dark eyes off in a shadowed corner, watching demons Tulip can't or doesn't want to see. She never once offers a reason for her untimely visit nor does Tulip ask for one. Instead they wallow in their own whatever it is they wallow in and keep each other company through the quiet.

Until three fourths of the way through the second bottle those eyes are back on Tulip. And the liquid burns going down for a reason that has nothing to do with its alcohol content.

"When was the last time you left Underworld?" she asks. And her voice has taken on a husky sort of waver that makes the skin along Tulip's arms feel cool. She drops her gaze to her hands in her lap and shrugs.

"Don't really know. Been a while, I guess. Willow makes most of my stops," she gives as answer.

Samantha makes a noise of acknowledgement in the back of her throat before upturning the bottle and draining it in two good gulps. Tulip sort of wants to object because she's not drunk enough for whatever this is and doesn't have anymore, would have to go to Ahzrukhal which is out of the question because he's an ass, but instead just lets her head lull back and closes her eyes. Feels when the smoothskin slips from the chair and settles before her.

The question asked is as quiet as their breathing. "Can I kiss you, Tulip?"

Her heart reaches for her throat. "You're drunk," she whispers back, even as she leans into the palm that cups her cheek, not opening her eyes. Afraid to find out she's right or that this is a dream.

She feels when Samantha leans in. The warmth of her breath is countered by the scent of alcohol and she wants to push away. Thinks it might be best. But then the woman is chuckling, and she feels a whimper blooming in the back of her throat.

"No. Just got some sense," comes the response.

And then there are lips against hers. Warm and damp and pliant. Gentle, coaxing. Like she might break if the woman pushes too hard. She just might, when she thinks about it. Might drown when she inhales and finds leather and sweat and something spicy making a home in her memory.

She doesn't move. Doesn't think she knows how to. Just sits there and breaths and keeps her eyes closed. Thinks that maybe, just maybe, it really isn't the alcohol.

Believes that she has a chance.


End file.
